


A Man's Quiet Sorrow

by Raicho



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Daryl Dixon is Murphy MacManus, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e01 Thirty Days Without an Accident, Gen, Hurt Daryl, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 04:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8650918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raicho/pseuds/Raicho
Summary: “We’re sorry for your loss,” they’d all say as they looked across the field at the empty grave with a crooked marker.            Daryl would nod and quietly thank them. They’d assumed his pain had come from the loss of Merle Dixon. They were wrong. His pain was not new; it was a grief that stemmed from years before the world’s end, founded on blood and religion.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've just been binging The Boondock Saints films this week and I am so into the idea of Daryl Dixon actually being Murphy MacManus. There just aren't enough stories that fit this trope to satisfy my craving.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

            It’d been a while since they’d settled down—taken the prison and welcomed in the newcomers from Woodbury. They’d all managed to find a home in their fucked up little world.

            They’d go out and scavenge for supplies and medicine. They’d started raising their own crops and livestock. They had the foundations of normalcy once more. They’d made it work.

            They’d made it work regardless of the secret ache Daryl harbored deep in his chest. There was a quiet sorrow that the hunter carried day in and day out, a gaping emptiness caused by the loss of his brother.

            “We’re sorry for your loss,” they’d all say as they looked across the field at the empty grave with a crooked marker.

            Daryl would nod and quietly thank them. They’d assumed his pain had come from the loss of Merle Dixon. They were wrong. His pain was not new; it was a grief that stemmed from years before the world’s end, founded on blood and religion.

            “Okay, I think I got it,” Zach blurted, pulling Daryl from his fond memories of church pews and gunfire. Back into the present.

            They were at an abandoned refugee camp—an old grocery store they’d scouted the week prior. It’d been crawling with walkers, but they’d managed to clear the place out with the help of a noisy boom-box and a bit of patience. They—Glenn, Michonne, Tyreese, Bob, Zach, and Daryl—just returned to search out any needed supplies, a quick grab and go type of sweep. He’d just finished pounding his elbow against the front glass window to draw out any lingering walkers to make sure it was safe.

            “Got what?” Michonne asked as she approached the boy from behind.

            “Ah, I’ve been tryin’ to guess what Daryl did before the turn,” Zach explained as he came over to take a seat beside the hunter on the small edge of brick windowsill.

            “He’s been tryin’ t’ guess for, like, six weeks.” Daryl huffed.

            “Yeah, I’m pacing myself!” the kid snapped back excitedly, trying not to appear embarrassed by his inability to properly guess the hunter’s former occupation, “One shot a day.”

            Daryl nodded, “Alright, shoot.”

            The boy looked at him with challenge in his eyes before flicking a finger to his nose and speaking, “Well, the way you are at the prison,” he nodded, “Like you’ve been behind those walls before. You’ve got those tattoos on you, the cross and Virgin. And your trigger finger," he trailed off for a second as he looked into the distance, "You’ve killed people in the past.”

            Daryl tried not to drown in his memories once again as he took a breath before nodding for the boy to continue.

            “Yeah, you bein’ on the council, you’re able to track, you’re helping people. But you’re still kind of, uh…” Zach raised his hand as if to magically summon the right word with a wave of his fingers, “Surly.”

            Michonne gave an amused grin at the kid’s accurate assessment.

            “Big swing here,” Zach asserted with a point of his finger, “You were a vigilante.”

            Immediately Michonne bent over, her frame shaking with laughter at the boy’s wild assumption.

            Daryl was in a state of well-tamed shock as he watched Michonne struggle for air against her full-bellied howls, “What’s so funny?”

            “Nothing. It makes perfect sense,” Michonne wiped at her eyes, her voice still giddy from laughing.

            Daryl huffed, “Actually, the man’s right.”

            Zach’s eyes grew wide with surprise, “C’mon, really?”

            Daryl broke eye contact and nodded, “Yep.”

            Daryl could feel their eyes on him as he stared at the ground in silence, the memories of his time in Boston swirling in his head like a whirlpool attempting to suck him into another lifetime.

            “‘Was a Saint,” Daryl’s voice was quiet as he elaborated, “Took down mafiosos, drug lords, and cleaned your typical slum off the streets,” he could feel his southern drawl begin to slip as his native Irish accent crept its way onto his tongue, “Worked in Boston with my Da an’ my—” He couldn’t find the strength to speak the word ‘brother’. Connor.

            His voice was a bit strangled as he rebounded from the awkwardness of the reveal, “I mean, I don’t like to talk about it ‘cause it was a lot of heavy shit, y’know?”

            He lifted his eyes to meet both Zach and Michonne’s before a moment of silence settled between the three of them. He could see the gears working in the samurai’s head; she was beginning to silently put the puzzle pieces together. Zach still looked disbelieving.

            “Dude, c’mon, really?”

            Daryl looked at him with sharp blue eyes and a straight face before clearing his throat. He offered no answer.

            “Okay, I'll just keep guessing, I guess.”

            Daryl sighed, “Yeah, you keep doing that.”

            The subject was dropped. There was work to be done.

            It wasn’t until the end of the day arrived, after they’d returned from their run—after Zach’s death—that Michonne approached him in the quiet of the night.

            “You really are one of them, aren’t you?”

            The question had taken him aback; he’d been so distracted by his own grief and the consolation of the youngest Greene daughter to even remember what they’d been discussing prior to the day’s unfortunate events.

            “You’re not Daryl Dixon.”

            Daryl met her eyes, a dark storm of ferocity and calm wind, and nodded, “I’m not.”

            “Who are you?”

            He took a deep breath before letting down his walls, “Murphy MacManus,” He’d needed this, an escape from the façade he’d so hurriedly been thrusted into after his getaway from the Hoag, “An Irish immigrant at the service of the Lord. Had a brother once—Connor,” his brother’s name was bittersweet on the tip of his tongue, “We only wanted to help. Never hurt anyone that didn’t deserve to be punished.”

            Michonne was silent as she listened to Daryl’s voice slip from a thick southern drawl to a sweet Irish accent. She made no move to leave or to stop him, and so he continued. He told her about his time in Boston before his epiphany, about the men he’d killed and how he’d prayed for each of their damned souls. He told her about Connor, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled and the weight of his fist against Murphy’s chest when they fought over a drunken brawl. He’d told her about how his brother—his _real_ brother—loved bad action films and singing ‘til the sun peeked on the horizon. He’d told her about their stint in the Hoag and how he’d been the only one able to get free with the help of a few good friends; told her he’d waited for Connor but the resources weren’t available at the time and he’d been so damn patient. He told her about his time with Merle, how he’d been a nice enough fellow to let the young MacManus tag along under the guise of being his little brother all those years ago. He told her about how lonely he felt some nights, wishing he’d had someone to share his secret with; someone to understand the weight of sin he carried atop his shoulders every day when the sun burned bright and the moon glowed like an angel.

            They sat for hours that night talking about his past, and Michonne never once made an expression of judgement or betrayal.

            “I believe you,” She said after Daryl shared the last bit of guilt he’d been willing to divulge.

            Daryl looked up at her with eyes on the cusp of shedding tears. The day was rough and he’d grown weary as God’s trials paraded on without pause.

            “Don’t be afraid of your past. Don’t let it consume you,” She spoke, “You can talk about it if you want. Anytime. I’ll listen.”

            Daryl nodded and smiled before wiping at his nose and lifting himself from his seat on the floor, “Thanks.”

            “Your secret’s safe with me.”


End file.
